“Well, ’tis a pity your kindness for him hath brought you so far, alone, and by night,” said Ann, dryly. “For ’tis a bad road you have to traverse on your way back, and none the safer for the rough fellows that are abroad, and that will be by this scarce sober enough to tell the parson’s daughter from a farm wench on her way back from market.”
“I can take care of myself, Ann, I thank you,” answered Joan, coldly; “so you will but give me your word that Lieutenant Tregenna is not here to your knowledge, I’ll return at once.”
There was a moment’s pause. Tregenna, who heard the question, waited with interest for the answer. Ann gave it in solemn tones.
“He is not here.”
“’Tis well, then. I’ll return.” She took a step towards the door, and then stopped. There was a sudden change to wistfulness in her tone which touched Tregenna to the quick when he heard her next words, “Ann, should he be brought hither: should your kinsmen find him and bring him to you, as I know they would do, you’ll—you’ll spare him, you’ll do him no hurt, for my sake, Ann, for the sake of what I have done for you?”
Again there was a pause. Then Ann answered, with a mocking laugh—
“Oh, he shall not be treated worse than his deserts, I’ll warrant you!”
There was a bitterness in her tone which appalled both her hearers. Joan stepped hurriedly back into the room, and cried, in a ringing voice—
“Then, troth, Ann, I will not leave this roof till your friends have come back!”
“You had better go, Miss Joan,” retorted Ann, dryly. “My mates, and specially after a raid, are no companions for a gentlewoman.”